"No clothes," she echoes, grabbing one of the towels. She dries herself off quickly and then wraps it around herself--look, that's what the man said, no clothes.

The sounds of her moving around the apartment are hopefully unobtrusive: glass filled in the kitchen with water, ferried to the bedside; thermostat adjusted; bed turned down; wastebasket near the dresser emptied and moved closer to the bed (though he'd likely have already been sick were it to be the case, she's always planning for any eventuality); lights elsewhere turned off and all the other usual going-to-bed tasks.

Eventually she reappears, leaning down to touch his arm. "Cynric. Ready?"